


Windows to the Souls

by Chaot1kShadow5



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls II
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-23 08:19:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6110622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chaot1kShadow5/pseuds/Chaot1kShadow5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eyes have long been considered the gateways to understanding a living being, and yet the most fascinating tales are told by the ones that remain closed. A series of one-shots telling the last moments of various bosses in the Dark Souls universe from their perspective. Rated T to be safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Window 1 - Gravelord Nito

He rested, as ancient, decrepit beings were wont to do - his prolonged (centuries worth of) rest did not concern him, however, as it was nature to grow ancient and decrepit and thus rest as long as he rested.

After all, it left him all of his focus with which to administer death.

Peering through eyes that Nito himself did not possess, he directed his servants and watched as they went about their tasks - cursing a foolish undead here, guiding a sword into the eye of a stone demon there, writing a message in order to trick passersby into activating a lethal trap... Everywhere Nito looked, he saw death, as he should.

Death came to all things, indeed, but sometimes it needed a guiding hand to ensure that none could disrespect that truth.

Unfortunately, Nito himself could not partake in the overseeing of natural progression - it could not be helped. He'd told himself many times before that it was solely to ensure that his servants did as they asked; to ensure that his servants respected the power and responsibility he entrusted them with.

That was true; the Gravelord recognised that some of his servants were not particularly savoury (never mind that no one performing this essential work was particularly savoury to begin with). Despite that, it was not the only reason he spent years laying in his coffin, overseeing his servants' work and blissfully ignoring the long-faded pleas of his old partners Gwyn and the Witch - why bother sustaining the Fire, when death would persist in both Light and Dark?

No; Nito also rested because of... Pride? Perhaps, because as silly as the notion was, he knew he could not administer death as he once did.

Nito did not trust any of the company he kept - links, whether strong or weak, often interfered with the progression of nature - but it still nonplussed the Gravelord when one of his servants dared to siphon his power into performing its twisted experiments (like the curious, disdainful Dragon - spitting in the face of nature in order to become _immortal_ ). Despite that, he was not concerned when he first discovered the treachery of his servant - except for a brief moment of anger he allowed when he learnt of the siphoning's purpose (then satisfaction as the whelp was punished for his sacrilege).

Now, resting within his great coffin and attending to the duties he had held since he first opened his eyes, the bolt of concern others would have felt then - tinged with just a touch of interest - ripped into the Gravelord's chest the same way a steel bolt just pierced the lung of a sleeping mercenary as he realised that the siphoning had stopped.

How long ago had that been? It could have been decades - such lengthy lapses had occurred before. But no; the eyes of his puppets in the Tomb told otherwise. There was an interloper, cutting through Nito's servants with a sword and _as_  a sword, forging a path straight into Nito's tomb and towards his heart.

They had entered his tomb. It did not matter, Nito decided as he truly woke for the first time in centuries - they would fall all the same, as everything fell in the end.

Nito rose from his coffin, gravesword in hand and cloak rippling with a transluscent miasma of death, just in time to witness the eyes of his lesser skeletons close. When they did not open again, the Gravelord dismissed their deaths - all things must die, naturally or not - and indicated for his greater skeletons to accompany him in bringing the interloper to their logical conclusion. They raced ahead, Nito trudging behind them and occasionally sending his gravesword between planes to strike at the interloper, his greater skeletons battering the interloper into acceptance.

And yet, their eyes closed on Nito as he discerned the interloper's strategy - many had come before him, each with their own unique methods of cheating the natural order - leaving him alone to carry out the grim, necessary anathema of life.

For with Fire came disparity through Dark, and Death must accompany Life in that regard.

Nito rounded the stone corner, and laid his eyes upon the interloper - clad in metal armour, with a metal shield and metal-holy sword. Having seen that particular equipment on an interloper before, Nito recalled a precious solution and pressed forward, swinging at his prey - whom dashed out of the way and struck at Nito's form. Disinterested in his wound - it was but one of many that would have to be landed to kill him, and that was in his weakened state - Nito maintained his assault, striking with his sword on several planes and unleashing what explosions of death and disease he had room for (or that he could summon).

Yes, Nito was an ancient and decrepit being, First of the Dead and overseer of death. It should not have surprised him as much as it did when the interloper's sword severed the last rope connecting his soul to the living world.

The sensation was... Odd, to say the least. Nito's body struggled to bundle together and hold onto the particles that detached from itself, refusing to accept the way of things. Nito himself, however, only found himself ruminating on the reactions of other beings to death: some screamed, some wept, some roared, others smiled. They all seemed to refuse death or distract themselves from the reality, even as their perception of the phenomenon began to fade away.

Nito held no such concerns even as they slipped from his fingers, for he knew that death came to all things - naturally or no - and that he himself was no exception.


	2. Window 2 - Ornstein and Smough

Standing around all day bored the Executioner to no end, he decided. Even back in the old days - when he maintained his place in the exact same spot, sunlight spilling onto the same spots on his armour, until every couple days someone truly heinous was brought forth to receive justice - he knew that there was a certain consistency to his dry spots. His attention would waver into whatever spots took his fancy, he'd be informed of an execution, and then the day after he enjoyed the thrill of taking a life; all that before the next lull came in to ruin his mood.

The doors to the hall opened, and some idiot no doubt chasing after that prophecy stepped through. Hefting his hammer, Proditor, Smough followed up that train of thought by deciding that - in spite of the sporadic lengths of his boredom - the battles that shook things up a little were worth the wait.

He was so excited by the arrival (it'd felt like weeks since his last fight) that he almost missed the telltale *clank* of his partner dropping from the balcony above. Allowing his grin to shift into a scowl, knowing it would return just as swiftly during the fight, he sent daggers at the Dragonslayer, knowing full well that his helmet need not be removed for the Knight of Gwyn to receive them. What a stuck-up bastard - going on and on about how he didn't deserve a place among the Knights of Gwyn due to his (and he would pause here) habits. "Really?! It's not like I'm roaming Anor Londo, murdering people and grinding them into seasoning because it turns out it works well with most meats! Wouldn't have thought people would care so much..." And how people so conveniently forgot the other atrocities committed by the Knights - the Vinheim Succession, the Founding of Blighttown, the Sealing of the Demon Ruins!

"And" Smough noticed how Ornstein was staring at him, stealthily dancing his fingers in the air to relay some ridiculous and convoluted plan of attack, like with the other Knights, "how this cretin has the gall to pretend, day in and day out, that I was never shamed before Gwyn himself!"

Roaring a challenge at the fool, Smough lowered Proditor and pushed it along the ground, letting his rage and bloodlust pump his colossal arms and rip upwards, obliterating a column and missing the Undead entirely as the leapt to the side-

-right into a spin of Ornstein's spear. He hated the prick, but there was still something satisfyingly hilarious about watching the Undead's head snap back with a resounding thwack before his body followed, thrown by the Knight's spearhead into the wall.

The fool lay still, crumpled in their armour in a sorry heap, and for a fleeting moment Smough was worried that his 'partner' had unwittingly cheated him of a fight. A moment passed, and then their form started to shift, slowly prying themselves from the floor and into a shaky stance, clearly disoriented from the blow.

...the blow that Ornstein had probably landed with utter perfection, in order to do damage and get prolong the fight for Smough's benefit. Fury surged within the Executioner once again, and he charged.

The battle continued from that stage as they usually did; the Undead, like all Undead before them, would flee before the combined force of the Executioner and Dragonslayer, leading them on a chase throughout the hall whilst taking advantage of whatever split-second opening presented itself. Usually they were also accompanied by a phantom, but not this one; perhaps they were Hollow, for no Undead could sincerely believe that they could take on the Watchers of Anor Londo by themselves.

Smough allowed his thoughts to distract him, which in turn allowed the Undead to ram their sword into his eyes.

They would have, certainly, if the trick-component of his armour didn't work as intended and led the Undead to believe his head was within the baby-face mask. Chuckling with a rush of schadenfreude, Smough grabbed the fool and slammed them into the ground with a glorious boom, causing a weakened column to come down and hide the two away from the Dragonslayer. Kneeling down, he watched the Undead squirm in a desperate attempt to get out of Smough's grip (like a worm) before lowering even further.

"This is what happens" he began, "when you dare challenge the Knights of Gwyn." He truly hoped his grin carried through his tone.

The Undead looked up, then whispered. "I wouldn't have thought so, since you are no Knight of Gwyn yourself."

HOW DARE THEY.

He brought Proditor down, again and again, on the Undead, only stopping when the result was a crater of cracked filing and broken stone...

...with no broken bones or armour. Confusion swept through Smough, and then alarm when he felt the Undead upon his back. Dropping his hammer and clawing at his neck, which the Undead was now working its way across, he failed to stop the warrior from positioning themselves in front of the slits that served as Smough's eyes. The world froze, Smough staring with rage at the idiot-

-who stared with a deadpan expression as they rammed their sword into Smough's true eyes.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________

Ornstein heard the colossal crash of Smough's form falling against the hall's floor, and spared only a moment to admonish the giant of a demigod before leaping to his corpse and beginning the process of withdrawing the Executioner's soul.

It was a dangerous battlefield tactic; it left the user vulnerable, and even if the fallen's soul survived the hazardous process, prolonged infusion of one's soul could jeopardize the host's mental state. Still, it was the only option the Dragonslayer had left to him - with Smough dead, it wasn't clear how long Ornstein's skill would carry him through the fight before he succumbed to the Undead's surprisingly vicious onslaught.

He flinched in pain, the energy of Smough's essence coursing through and changing him, healing him and granting him the giant's strength. "I swear upon a mountain of Dragons I will serve you, my Lord."

He clenched his fist, and realized he could see the remaining column capitals because he stood at their level. "I will honor Lordran in the defence of Anor Londo."

He held his spear out to his side, grunting a challenge and testing his newfound power. "I swear to protect the life of your Daughter of Sunlight with my life."

He called the lightning within, and slung it forth in the form of a greatarrow, using the distraction to leap up and slam his spearhead atop the Undead's new position.

Despite the difficulty it was causing the Dragonslayer, he had to give credit where it was due - the Undead fought well for a Cursed human. Whenever Ornstein unleashed a flurry of stabs and slashes, the human would roll out of the way of as many attacks as possible, blocking what couldn't be avoided and taking what hits were necessary. Their strength was impressive, as well; thus far their tactics had involved ducking between his legs and slashing with their sword, weakening the armor there to get at the soft flesh beneath.

He decided to address that issue, and leaped away to don the defensive rock-stance.

This time, the Undead encountered far greater resistance, and was eventually forced to backpedal as Ornstein pressed the openings available and struck at the warrior, eventually returning to the aggressive snake-stance to decisively end the battle.

Then, something unexpected happened.

In a fatal error that would have been viciously chastised by Ornstein if found on any of the other Knights, he had allowed his Lady Gwynevere to remove his left gauntlet prior to the battle against this Undead - sliding it back on as he jogged out into the Hall.

What was unexpected was that it resulted in the gauntlet fitting on incorrectly, and so when Ornstein's spear rose to block the Undead's slash, their sword was deflected downwards in an arc that nearly severed his left hand.

Yanking his hand back in pain, Ornstein suppressed a yelp and leaped back to assess the damage. There was no need - he realized in an instant that there was no fighting on with that amount of damage impeding his capacity to wield his spear.

Still, he had no choice, taking on the one-handed Basilisk stance and launching immediate, careful stabs to conserve energy and maximize safety.

It was no use; his carelessness had cost him much of his strength and focus, and without full readiness he was losing ground rapidly, until he tripped on the stairs before the Hall's centerpiece, landing on his back and dropping his spear as agony lanced up his ruined arm. "Forgive me, my Lord, and forgive me, my Lady, for I have wrought false hope in your name."

Still, he struggled, and for once the Dragonslayer allowed his voice to carry through his helmet as a growl of frustration and pain. He paused as he noticed the hesitation in the Undead's eyes - he could not recall knocking off the warrior's helm.

He could not decide, in his dying moments, what he felt about that look.

"Well? Will you not finish what you started, Undead?" Ornstein hissed, his honour demanding that it be preserved through death.

The Undead started, then recovered and took a deep breath. "Sorry, I... I suppose this must be done." They raised their sword, shaking just a little - though in reluctance or adrenaline Ornstein could not tell. "Well fought, Dragonslayer."

The sword fell, as did Ornstein's eyes.


	3. Window 3 - Great Grey Wolf Sif

The night stirred, the spirits within the Darkroot Wood flitting about in agitation. That was unexpected; there had been few who dared enter the remnants of Oolacile for some time.

The disturbance was getting closer - remnants of previous explorers were cut down where they stood, moonlight catching and scattering amidst their crumbling forms.

The disturbance was closer still - the parents of the mushroom children roared in fury, and yet their blows only struck wood and stone.

It was closer...

Sif opened her eyes.

Looking out from her observation post, very well hidden by the surrounding trees, the Great Grey Wolf traced the path the intruder had taken - from the ruins, over the bridge, past the grove...

The intruder's path was unmistakable - it led right towards his grave. She unconsciously growled; unacceptable. No one could be allowed to disturb his rest.

Sif raced down the hill, weaving effortlessly through the tree line in spite of her enormous size to reach the grave first. Despite her speed, she heard the gate open in the distance, which caused her to stumble and water their eyes (because I realised I would never see his friends again-)

Stop, his solid yet gentle voice commanded, the vestige of his memory instantly dispelling Sif's distress. It would not do to honour the Oath in such a state.

Familiar resolve returning to her veins, the Great Grey Wolf slowed her approach to mask her arrival - haste would do no good now that the disturbance had arrived - and, as stealthily as possible, dropped down into grave site and paced towards his grave.

The stealthy approach Sif employed did not seem necessary; the disturbance - the Undead, noticing their strangely familiar, armoured form - had not even noticed the Wolf's approach, slowly waltzing through and examining the myriad of weapons offered in tribute to the Knight who rested here. Seeking to capitalise on their fatal lack of awareness, Sif waited for the Undead to approach his grave (forgive me for desecrating your memorial) before leaping to its top and facing-

The familiarity seemed to stem less from what they were are rather whom.

Sif brushed those thoughts aside and pounced atop of the Undead, even as those very fragments implored her to stop (, don't you see it's them it's-) and let them be. Growling, Sif prepared to press her jaws down on their form when-

Their smell was familiar.

Sif paused, only to sniff, and-

(No.)

Again... Sif's frown vanished, eyes widening in recognition. (Einherjar - friend).

The Einherjar reached up to stroke Sif's muzzle, the same way they did to comfort the Wolf as they (abandoned him, how could I do that to my master, please forgive me A-)

The Great Grey Wolf lowered her head in hesitant grief; they both knew what would come of this intrusion, and yet the Einherjar was acting as a friend whilst moments from death.

But... Perhaps, something else? Sif only had to protect the grave, as per the oath's command - it was not specified how. Yes, yes - Sif could offer them a chance to walk away having fulfilled their component of the oath...

A tempting offer for both: the Einherjar would walk free, and Sif would be reunited with

(Artorias.)

(Please forgive me for offering sympathy to those who, wittingly or not, would tarnish your legacy.)

Accepting her choice, Sif unleashed a keening howl into the night, announcing her intentions to the Lords, to the Knights, her master, and the Einherjar. The Great Grey Wolf winced as the Einherjar pleaded their objection, but otherwise Sif's motions were true, and with a flick of her teeth Artorias's great-sword was poised to strike.

She waited for the Einherjar to ready themselves, and leapt.

As the fight carried out in earnest, Sif fought viciously against the Undead and her own reluctance - (the Oath demands a fight, not a lesson), and so the Undead's mettle was not truly tested against the anvil of the Wolf-knight's teachings. Sif found her attention wavering between those fronts and the bitter memories of her last moments with Artorias, which she knew were leaving her vulnerable (but I can't stop-)

And then their blade sliced into Sif's left foreleg.

Neither the yelp of shock nor the growl of anger could be withheld, the Wolf's battle instincts making her momentarily forget who she wished to live - resulting in a renewed charge, this time driven by rage rather than dedication to the Oath. But it was too late; the damage was done, and Sif could not move fast enough whilst lacking a leg. Eventually, the blood loss and exhaustion from compensating for her limp drained her stamina and Sif fell helplessly to their side, setting her full attention on the Einherjar.

"Please" they spat out, visibly distressed, but without obvious wounds - had Sif's trepidation really hampered her challenge so greatly, or was the Einherjar simply that skilled? "Don't make me..." They trailed off, and nodded to their sword as if still struggling to come to terms with what had to be done.

Sif nodded, understanding, and attempted to present her neck for a quick, clean kill.

Your oath has been honoured, friend , came a voice unbidden to Sif, and in her last moments she could have sword a pair of arms wrapped themselves around and cradled Sif's head.


	4. Window 4 - The Looking Glass Knight

Her reflection stared back at her with eyes devoid of emotion - they could no longer express any after her time spent in the King's service.

Studying the image before her, the once-woman known by the aspirants who came through the King's Passage as the Looking Glass Knight was as unimpressed as ever. Flesh, wracked by barbs hidden from view by her unblemished geisteel armor; muscles, uncontrollably twitching with decades of service and vigilance; her sword, slung upon her back and forged with a body to reflect her own, and her mirror-shield...

Her mirror-shield... Which showed herself looking upon a reflection.

With a start, the Glass Knight emerged from her introspective stupor and donned her helmet, resuming her standard off-guard stance. Finished with the examination of her gear, the Glass Knight hefted her mirror to her side and closed her eyes, shifting into a state of meditation to keep her mind as sharp as her sword in order to compensate for her body's ailments. Focusing, she noted the thundering storm above her, sending soft daggers of water to ping harmlessly off her form; she noted the crumbled parapet walls and colonnades of the courtyard, and how they would have been torn down and replaced if there were any remaining foes to defend the castle from; she noted...

...the sounds of battle coming from the Passage.

Immediately recognizing the commotion for what it meant, the Glass Knight secured her hold on the mirror and drew her sword from her back, poised to strike at the aspirant the moment they walked through the fog-wall. She did not expect such preparations to be necessary, considering the antsy heat gradually filling her limbs, and yet it was.

After all, whoever wished to join the King's royal guardsmen was clearly prepared, if the dying sounds of battle were any indication.

To steel her nerves, and to prepare herself for her opening assault, the Glass Knight breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth, slowly and deeply.

Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. The sounds of battle on the other side had ceased completely.

In through the nose, out through the mouth. Footsteps grew closer and closer to the fogwall.

In, out. The aspirant walked through, the Glass Knight snapped open her eyes, and she leaped into the air, commanding lightning through her blade and slamming it down upon the-

\- aspirant's shield. She allowed herself a moment to be impressed by their endurance, then ran the blade along the shield, hooked the edge under her sword's crossguard, and flung the aspirant across the courtyard in an attempt to wrest the shield from their grasp.

Having created a lull in the battle, she quickly scanned the aspirant - medium bradden-steel armor, longsword, standard kite-shield, and what looked like a heavy crossbow on their back. Standard armament for knights, but clearly not of Drangleic make. That didn't matter, the Glass Knight decided - she'd cut down opponents with far greater armor of stone and metal.

Finished with her assessment, she charged in response to the aspirant's own tactic, both holding their shields out and poising their swords for a thrust. The aspirant stabbed first, sword bouncing off the mirror and leaving no marks whatsoever whilst leaving them vulnerable for a counterattack. She swung, missing them through their roll, and spun around before bringing her sword back down in an overhead arc, deliberately aiming just to the side so she could shift her grip and smash it into the knight's side.

They were tossed away, and the Glass Knight spared a second to chide herself for using the flat of the blade before stomping after them.

They picked themselves up and hastily adopted a defensive stance, and so the Glass Knight slowed her approach, coming to a stop. For a few moments, the two figures stood frozen in the downpour, lightning occasionally illuminating the arena and surrounding countryside-

The aspirant lost their patience and charged. Foolish.

Indeed, their reckless charge was easily evaded with a sidestep, and before they could bring their shield around the Glass Knight kicked them up into the air and slashed downward, missing their waist but shattering their shield - and, if their screams of pain were any indication, the bones in their arm. Refusing to let the opportunity slide, she raised her shield to slam down on and crush the aspirant's head, musing as to how the many fighters who came through the Passage were so sloppy these days-

They awkwardly rolled away, howling in protest, and stumbled before regaining their composure and raising their sword.

She determined that the aspirant was frustratingly persistent, although they wouldn't have reached her if they weren't. Deciding that more advanced techniques were necessary, the Glass Knight waited for the aspirant to begin healing themselves - using one of the curious flasks that could mend all but immediately fatal wounds - and called the lightning into her blade, raising it and then slamming it on the ground to create a stream of vibrant energy.

The aspirant capped the flask, rolled to the side, and downed a couple gulps of the precious Estus within before stowing it away and grasping the hilt of their sword with both hands.

They then immediately backpedaled, visibly panicking as they barely evaded each swipe of the Glass Knight's sword and backed into a column. She struck again, but her sword struck empty air and the column, before passing through and embedding itself in the courtyard tiling. Before she could chastise herself for her mistake, the aspirant ended their roll to her left side, and raised their sword before bringing it down on her mirror-arm.

To her credit, the Glass Knight made no sound expressing her pain - it helped that the receptors dedicated to detecting those neuro-chemical impulses were dulled by the growths throughout her body - but even without she could tell that her arm could not withstand another blow. The sword must've been reinforced with titanite, and even geisteel could not withstand-

Focus. In, out. She called for aid from her mirror, thanking it for its service, and then drew her stump arm back.

Now to keep them occupied - if their sword was truly reinforced with material as refined as titanite, she doubted her chances of victory. That alone resulted in a spike of fear embedding itself in the length of her arm, realizing that this aspirant was especially violent; perhaps enough that they would not settle for passing her test. Resolve removed the spike of fear, and so the Glass Knight began parrying blows and countering when the opportunity presented itself.

She started making noise, liberally calling upon the lightning in order to distract the aspirant from the cracking surface of the mirror. Just a little longer...

Try as she might, there was no disguising the ear-splitting crack of glass as a mirror squire clambered out of their world and into that of the aspirant.

Whirling around in shock, they raised their weapon in readiness before remembering the threat behind them, too late to evade the killing blow launched by the Glass Knight. She struck the ground behind her, dragged her sword across, and slashed upwards to bisect the aspirant.

Only they dropped their sword and wrapped their arms around the blade, losing the fingers of one hand but otherwise holding on.

The maneuver nonplussed the Glass Knight so badly that she froze; in that moment of weakness, the aspirant grabbed their crossbow and loosed a bolt into the eye-holes of her helmet. She quietly hissed in anger, clutching at her eye and swinging with abandon at the aspirant, who grabbed their sword and rolled out of the way of her sword and letting it strike the squire, dissipating immediately.

Pausing to collect and focus herself, she crouched and started parrying the aspirant's attacks, but the lack of her mirror and an eye reduced the effectiveness of her swordsmanship, and so she found herself backing up for breathing room. The aspirant, however, refused her such a luxury, pressing and pressing their assault until the Glass Knight's legs bumped against the parapets of the tower. She couldn't glance down now, and she didn't need to - she knew what fate awaited her on the other side.

In a final, desperate bid to break their assault, the Glass Knight raised her sword and brought it straight down to cleave the aspirant in twain. Alas, the aspirant sidestepped the rather obvious attack, and pulled her arm down to the ground - being sorely weakened by blood loss, she followed, slamming to the ground.

She focused through the terror clouding her thoughts, and noticed her sword just in front of her. She reached out to reclaim it, already determining the strategy she would require to escape her situation-

\- and her arm was pinned by the aspirant's leg. The Glass Knight looked up the exact moment the aspirant's sword mimicked her downward slash.


	5. Window 5 - Sir Alonne

He clearly remembered the first time he had lain eyes upon the man who would become the Iron King.

To be honest, the impoverished nobleman would not have warranted the attention of any great man - never mind a great swordsman - with the state of is domain and own personal effects. He could have been called arrogant, selfish, even egotistical, and there was certainly much evidence to support that set of condemnations.

But he did not see those things - instead, he saw an ambitious young lord of the land of Venn, deducing that he could become a truly great king if he simply had a teacher - and despite being a warrior, Alonne was foremost a teacher, and so he elected to impart his wisdom upon the youth king.

And yet, he almost could not recognize the man who sat upon his iron throne earlier today in the court. Alonne did not know how the accursed artifact worked, but he understood that it granted access to infinite supplies of iron, and that the iron scepter was solely to blame for the king's descent into debauchery. Indeed, he was so distraught by the sight of his first student parading around his Ironclad golems and knights trained in Alonne's art that he had to retreat to his private chambers immediately to reflect on... his distress? Disappointment? He could not say.

In any case, the warrior reminded himself that the king was merely misguided, not inherently corrupt. The Iron King was once an insufferable brat who wielded his power like a giant's club - frequently and without care for those beneath him. However, time spent at his side in training, in pastimes, and during the war against Venn had shown him the deeper and more earnest side to the man - he sincerely wanted to be a good king, merely being clouded by his greed and self-image.

Alonne's lessons had taught him how to be an honorable warrior and a true king; perhaps he had simply forgotten what he'd learned. The warrior mused that it would be ideal to resume his lessons, starting with a game or two of sudoku - he missed the days where they bonded over their mutual interest in the game.

His meditative trance was audaciously shattered when the doors to his chamber burst open.

The only outward indication that the visitor's arrival was acknowledged was an imperceptible tilt of Alonne's mask. He was instantly furious - if they had arrived on this floor, unannounced, it could only mean that this malicious cur had committed prenticecide by slaughtering his students. His best and brightest, gone; it could not go unpunished.

Grasping the hilt of his bewitched blade, Alonne rose from his position on the floor and assumed plow-stance, ready to either attack or stop an attack. Across the room, the cur had the nerve to bow in respect - Alonne only offered a tilt of his head, as the memory of his pupils had to be avenged before whatever proper respects they deserved could be offered.

With the combatants done passing formalities, Alonne charged.

It elicited a wave of schadenfreude in Alonne to see the Undead throw themselves to the side in shocked terror - clearly their experience with Alonne's knights had not prepared them for their duel with the warrior himself. In spite of their apparent panic, they were not disoriented enough to fail blocking a swipe of Alonne's blade, deftly deflecting his blows with rushed but accurate blocks, and eventually found the room they needed to back off and recover from Alonne's onslaught.

Having gotten over the initial rage brought about by the deaths of his students, the Demon of the East obliged, and waited for them to press their own attack.

When it came, Alonne rose his blade to parry, and was caught in a feint attack that left a sizable gash in his shoulder armor before he could leap back and thrust, piercing their shield and stabbing their left arm. This time when the murderer pulled away to recover, he lowered his sword and dashed once more, bringing up his sword in an arc which severed the Undead's sword arm and sent them spinning backwards - as a firebomb left their hand, exploding harmlessly against his armor but distracting him long enough for them to drink some Estus and roll for their sword.

The two came to a rest and squared off against each other, circling each other with cautious stances. Discerning the distance between them and deciding it was short enough, Alonne drew his sword to his hip as if preparing another charge, whilst beckoning forth the spirit within the blade - a mysterious entity that tried and failed to master Alonne during his days as a squire. Mustering its energies, the Demon of the East slashed the air in front of him to expel its dark essence in a wave that sped towards and collided with the Undead, sending them sprawling and gasping for breath - creating an opening which he immediately took advantage of, dashing across to strike-

\- and being stabbed in the gut.

Alonne knocked the Undead aside and tore out the sword, realizing it would let his blood flow freely in exchange for uninhibited movement, and slashed repeatedly at the Undead, making several cuts and clefting their shield arm. They frantically groped for their flask, and were then impaled by his blade before being tossed aside, laying still and staining the tiled floor with their blood. Despite his best efforts, Alonne watched with a rare flush of denial and even indignation as he watched the Undead take a few swigs of Estus before getting back on their feet, the damage to their armor the only indication that they had been fighting at all - and the Demon of the East immediately registered an uncomfortable truth.

He lowered his gaze to the floor - he had dishonored his students. He failed to complete their training, he foolishly left them without guidance, and he couldn't even honor their memory with the just punishment of the murderer; he would not delude himself into thinking that, with his wounds, he could successfully bring justice upon the Undead. Affirming his path, he dropped his guard, reversed his grip on his sword - the foul-spirited, taintful, and yet loyal weapon which had served him well throughout his travels - and plunged it into his stomach, dragging it from one side of his torso to the other.

His hands fell from the hilt of the blade, too weak to maintain their grip, and as his thoughts slipped away he felt regret - not just for failing his students, but for failing the Iron King, who would be alone now that his trusted knight and friend had left him. With what strength he had left, Alonne raised his head and nodded at the Undead, whom he could have sworn bowed in genuine respect before the Demon of the East disappeared, his service to the Iron King ended.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A/N - Hello! Just wanted to thank the people who've left kudos and... read the fic, and... pff, you came here for Dark Souls, not my self-deprecating rambling!

Anyway, the current plan for the next couple chapters revolves around our good old buddy Gwyn, as well as a very angry bird. Before anyone asks, if I write chapters for characters such as Artorias, it won't be within the boss fights themselves, because their lack of self-awareness would make for minuscule works. Sorry :/

I won't keep you guys occupied with my crappy note any longer; see you next time!


	6. Window 6 - Gwyn, Lord of Cinder

Preserve the Flame.

It was the only thought occupying the broken mind of a lone god, standing resolute at the heart of a sea of ash, and it would be the only thought to exist again - the man once known as Gwyn had burnt for too long to remember anything else.

Preserve the Flame.

The burning had also ruined Gwyn's body. His breaths were deep, ragged, and never drew in enough air; his legs, despite drawing energy from his soul to stand upright in defense of the Flame, shook and quaked like an old man's; his hands, gripping his trusted sword, grew tighter and tighter to maintain the same hold; his eyes, once warm and bright as his domain, faded to dark pits of despair, with nary a twinkle of a star.

Something seemed familiar about the dark eyes, but it would not reveal itself.

Preserve the Flame.

His eyes could no longer see for him, but the Lord of Cinder could see through the eyes of his once-knights, ever loyal, ever vigilant. Through them, he laid eyes upon the ruins of a mysterious land - broken castles, decaying bodies, endless nights - and the scarce living souls remaining. When he saw them, his decrepit heart stuttered against his ribcage, and an echo keened in anguish at the ruin that should have been prevented.

Preserve the Flame.

And yet, the figment left in Gwyn's place could not care; it could not care about the state of the land, it could not care about promises made to well-known faces, and it certainly could not care about leaving this charred wreckage to set out and rally his knights for some forgotten purpose. All he could remember was...

Something had entered the Kiln.

Protect the Flame.

Empowered by instinct, magic, and sheer strength, Gwyn leaped towards the portal into the Kiln and stabbed the ground, whirling around in a spin that would have slashed any surrounding foes to pieces. Despite the ferocity of his onslaught, the presence lingered, and Gwyn spun on the spot to face whatever dared threaten the Age of Fire.

The thing was humanoid, and... that was all Gwyn could discern in his frazzled state. The details weren't important - what mattered was

Protect the Flame.

Gwyn's sword swung out to the side, arm only firm enough to keep his sword from slapping against his leg and scorching what tissue was left while he ran, and then swung back in front of Gwyn as he came to a stopping feign and let momentum carry the blade in an arc that would have otherwise decapitated the threat. Instead, the threat dodged and jabbed at the torn garments adorning the Lord of Cinder's form, doing little save for forcing Gwyn to drop his blade in the ash and exposing himself.

The threat approached, perhaps seeing an opening that wasn't there. The Lord of Cinder needed a distraction, and called his power into his hand...

...manifesting an orb that elongated into a spear of writhing flame.

The threat rolled as one, then two, then dozens of spears were lobbed, each planting in the ash and evaporating as they failed to hit their mark. Still, Gwyn did not cease until the threat had vanished; he bent down to pick up his sword, and-

\- the presence lingered.

PROTECT THE FLAME.

The Lord of Cinder reversed his sword and stabbed behind him, twirling around and raising it to deflect the presence's oncoming blows. Time blended as the duel continued, each figure trading slashes, stabs, parries, and pummels at a blistering pace, occasionally broken by a tendril of flame or a golden flask.

A golden flask; the fragment from before screamed for Gwyn to shatter it. He stabbed at their hand, and the ash below was suddenly imbued with glowing nectar and green shards.

The presence's tactics changed; now their attacks came alone or in pairs, before retreating behind their shield and weathering the Lord of Cinder's next barrage. Victory was close, though, Gwyn could feel that if nothing else - the pairs stopped coming, their attacks were slowing, their shield recoiling further and further as they brought it up in defense.

Gwyn hadn't the presence of mind to wonder if it was because of blood loss or mere exhaustion.

His sword came downward, and his decrepit ears detected a faint *clang* and a scream of pain as the threat's shield was knocked out of their hand and flames crawled up their arm. They collapsed, clutching the damaged limb and howling whilst Gwyn brought back his sword and sliced, cutting off the threat's air.

Their headless body collapsed and faded. The threat had passed.

Preserve the Flame.

Something that may have once been relief struggled through Gwyn's veins - the First Fire was safe. Trudging back to the flickering embers, he planted his sword in the ground between his legs and waited, prepared for any who would come to threaten the Flame.

...but not for the blade that pierced his back.

!?

Gwyn pitched forward, arms unsuccessfully slowing his descent into the soft, grainy floor. As he struggled upwards, a boot knocked him head over heels, rolling and coming to a stop

THE FLAME, PROTECT THE FLAME

Gwyn stumbled to his feet and tried to sprint for the threat, one outstretched and the other fumbling the sword that wasn't at his hip, but on the ground some distance away from him.

PROTECT THE FLAME!

The threat had no shield, but a sword in one hand and the other slowly reaching for the dying light of

THE FLAME

IT CANNOT DIE

PROTECT THE FLAME

Gwyn couldn't pick up the pace; the muscles in his legs had long since atrophied to the point of uselessness, and only the vestiges of his Lord Soul let him use them at all. Still, the Lord of Cinder refused to fail in his task to

PROTECT. THE. FLAME!

Gwyn's hand tightened into a grasping claw, reaching for the hand that reached for the Flame-

A sword buried itself in his throat.

Gwyn sunk to his knees, clawing at the blockage in his windpipe and fighting for breath that he didn't know he still needed. The threat turned from the Flame (dear flame...), grasped the hilt of their own sword...

...and ripped upwards.

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Yes, the first "threat" was Solaire's phantom - at this stage, I imagine Gwyn wouldn't have been able to recognise of much beyond his mission, if he could still recognise anything at all.

Anywho, next up is Raime, and then I was thinking of writing a piece for The Last Giant, then Gwyndolin. Originally, I was thinking of doing bosses like the Four Kings and Old Dragonslayer, but I'm reconsidering it; the latter's technically been done already, and I'm not too sure if the Four Kings were really self-aware by the time you find them in the Abyss.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I certainly hope you're looking forward to the next one!


	7. Window 7 - Raime, the Fume Knight

A greatsword rested in the ash, coated half-up its blade and at an angle often attributed to the graves of legendary knights.

Something else rested in the ash as well, waiting for anyone foolish enough to fall for the trap to enter and threaten the life of his lady. Raime preferred the Ash-Dream to the real world - it was safer, allowing him some semblance of peace.

It also allowed him the chance to be with Lady Nadalia.

He wasn't entirely sure how it worked; according to Nadalia, she had fallen into despair and sundered her soul when she arrived at the Brume Tower, finding it devoid of life. Despite being a man interested in finding reasonable explanations, he did not let it trouble him - she gave him power, purpose, and private counsel whenever he required it.

Not now, though - nowadays tended to involve moments for relaxation, of simply knowing they were by each other's side. Was it love? Raime doubted it; there was certainly affection for the Child of Dark, but it was less romantic and more like the love held for tutors or parents - people you look up to.

In any case, residing in the Ash-Dream also had its practicalities - it granted the Rebel a chance to ambush any interlopers, and even a position with which to observe the entirety of the tower through the fog and ash permeating the Tower.

It was thanks to those advantages that the Rebel had borne witness to the interloper destroying the Ashen Idols.

He had no reason to be alarmed at first - Nadalia had once assured him that her Ashen Idols faded all the time, and were restored in various places - but that assurance vanished when he felt a fragment of her soul disappear, claimed by the interloper. Nadalia's look of perturbation only reinforced his decision to vacate the Ash-Dream and await the interloper's arrival; he knew the throne room was their target from the path they weaved through the tower.

That was then - they had almost arrived.

Encased within the ash, the Rebel's shoulders twitched with every Idol that was destroyed, every fragment that was stolen away from her - and each time, he brought forth memories of his earlier battles, his earlier foes, his earlier comrades-

A golden warrior-cleric forced their way into his mind, and the Rebel viciously tore them apart before returning to his meditation.

Finally, the interloper was at the entrance to the enclave. Despite the situation, Raime felt a familiar wave of amusement course through him when he beheld the interloper's reaction to Fumigator, his greatsword; the faces people made when they saw it lunging for them was always worth the wait.

They got close, reaching with almost childlike wonder for the blade, and Raime decided that it would be an appropriate time to ruin their awe. Dark fog and flames rose from the ground surrounding Fumigator as he clawed his way out of the ashes, ripping it free from its place and hoisting it onto his shoulder in time to watch the Undead scramble backwards into a defensive position.

He took a moment longer to note how pathetic the Undead looked, with its patchy metal armor and quaking sword arm - they even glanced back at the entrance as if considering running - before leaping and bringing Fumigator up for a slamming attack.

The Undead rolled out of the way, much to Raime's bemusement, flipping the blade onto its side and dragging it across the ground in an arc which caught their legs and flipped them onto their back. Bringing his longsword up in a reversed grip to stab the prone warrior, the Undead clambered up and side-stepped before slashing at the plate protecting Raime - instantly infuriating the Rebel and eliciting a series of wild swings with both weapons in a frenzied attempt to destroy the interloper.

As they dueled, movement caught his attention from the portal into the room, and Raime spared a glance to-

...

...that armor...

...that hammer...

"VEEEELLLLLLSSTTTAAAAAAAAAADDDTTTT!" He bellowed, too livid to realize that his epiphany was vocalized. He made to dash towards him and obliterate that glowing mongrel, but paused as he hefted his longsword. "Not enough, NOT ENOUGH!" Pelting it at a wall with enough force to embed it up to its hilt, Raime raised Fumigator to the roof and called for Nadalia. "Power, NOW!"

Encouraging him, his lady awoke the soul-fragment within the charred greatsword and unleashed a monstrous cone of dark flame along the blade, not burning so much as cutting apart the structure unfortunate enough to be caught in its path - scattering ash and metal all over the arena in such volumes as to shroud it in mist.

Fumigator aflame, Raime roared and brought the greatsword around in a wide arc, fueling the flames with his fury and completely demolishing the entrance to the enclave. Whatever satisfaction he could have gained from the effort evaporated when Velstadt staggered to the Undead's side, clutching his hammer and already preparing miracles.

Shaking with rage, the Rebel screamed and sprinted at Velstadt, fluidly bringing up Fumigator and slamming it atop him before slashing wildly in his general direction without pause. It took several moments afterwards to realize that he had missed entirely, attacking the empty space in front of him whilst Vesltadt and the Undead chipped away at his armor - at least, before they noticed his attention on them and entered a cautious stance as he howled with indignation, bringing up his greatsword and planting it into the ground.

Disappointingly, Raime was still lucid enough to notice Velstadt and the Undead retreat to the edges of the room to recuperate, inadvertently avoiding the violent explosion that ripped from Fumigator's flames - still, most of the fire orbs produced as a byproduct connected with the two warriors. Raime tore out Fumigator while watching Velstadt with sick glee, drinking in the sight of his former partner clutching at his chest and gaping, clearly struggling to breath after the impact. Taking the initiative, Raime charged, this time roaring with victory as he prepared to swing at Velstadt as he looked up from his kneeling position and terror flashed across his features-

\- before his leg gave out.

Moaning with vexation, Raime looked behind him and noticed with a jolt that a sword - the Undead's longsword - was wreathed in blue flame and protruding from Raime's knee. "How...?" He did not ponder his situation for long before Velstadt and the Undead's assault resumed, bringing whatever weapons they had to bear upon the fallen Rebel. He propped himself onto his functioning knee with Fumigator and swing his left arm out, fist connecting with and throwing the Undead across the room, whilst Nadalia - perhaps sensing the request forming in his mind - withdrew the flames into newly-formed cracks along Fumigator's blade and mended his wound enough to stand on.

He slowly lurched to his feet as Nadalia spoke. "I'm too weak..." If he listened closely, which he wouldn't while Velstadt still breathed, Raime may have heard her panting. "I can't heal your knee properly, and can no longer empower you. I'm sorry."

The Rebel growled in frustration, parrying Velstadt's hammer blows and thrusting at a weak point in his armor. "I can do without; rest now. I will handle these curs." Relief at her withdrawal ebbed into dread when he looked past Velstadt - a colossal feat in his anger - and noticed that the Undead was sneaking towards the chamber where his lady rested.

If they took the crown, Nadalia would disperse; they could not take the crown.

A new wave of an emotion he briefly recognized as desperation tore through his body as Raime tried to sprint to the chamber portal, soon replaced by agony when his knee protested against the strain. Despite the wound, he forced himself to speed up, and desperately lunged at the entrance as the Undead sped down the stairs. "No! NADALIA!"

No one answered.

Nothing moved in the chamber below, but it was clear what the Undead had done. the Rebel fell to his knees, hands pressed against the eyepieces of his armor as he cried out in grief. Everything remained still, at least as he was aware - without his lady, his awareness of the Brume Tower's fog was inhibited, leaving him blind and deaf to all save the cavern he resided in.

The cavern were he was doing battle.

The cavern with Velstadt.

Raime spun around, fixing his gaze on the recoiling knight, and the foundations of the cavern shook with the mad holler that emerged from his lips. Barely aware of anything except for the greatsword in his hand and the figure before him, he dashed and raised Fumigator above his head, roaring and howling at the cowering figure in front of him. He brought Fumigator down in a vicious slash, barely missing Velstadt as he rolled to the side-

\- but not the iron beam above him, splitting it in half and dropping the roof on top of him.

Nearly crushed by the weight of the iron atop him, Raime struggled to free himself from the detritus to no avail. Resentful, he thrashed and battered at the space in front of him, demanding that Velstadt return so that he may grab him and tear him to bloody pieces. Instead, the Undead from before approached, another sword in his hand and the Iron King's crown in the other. They paused, contemplative, and Raime was offended by their hesitation.

Then, before he could give voice his fury, they raised their sword and stabbed.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

...and Raime's struggle came just short of being the longest chapter in this series.

I should probably mention that I started university a couple weeks ago, and as a result may not have too much time to invest in writing. Granted, I procrastinate through games and fanfiction just as much as ever, and I basically wrote the entire chapter during the period between a morning lecture and afternoon tutorial, but knowing the workload that's coming it probably won't happen too often.

I hope you enjoyed, and thanks for reading!


	8. Window 8 - Dark Sun Gwyndolin

In a quiet tomb, connected to a quiet chamber in a quiet city, a young god meditated to contain his temper. The light had long since faded from the sky, the signifier of his source of power emerging, but he could not evoke the words needed to completely soothe his fury, as the sun was never to set on Anor Londo. It did not matter, however, now that he understood the situation; he knew the crime, he knew the sinner, and he knew the punishment.

Gwyndolin knew what night falling on Anor Londo meant - someone had dared to tarnish and destroy the illusion of his sister, Gwynevere.

He knew who the perpetrator of this vile act was - none other than a Blade of the Darkmoon, one who was supposed to hunt down such contemptible reprobates with his authority and power.

He knew the punishment - for daring to mar the image of the Princess of Sunlight, the ungrateful wretch must be put to death in the name of Lord Gwyn.

Of course, that would require leaving his father's tomb unguarded, and that would not do at all - not when the immortals had long abandoned Lordran, and mere mortal men were left in their place, crawling and skittering around the grandiose ruins as they scrounged for whatever measly refuse was left to sate their hunger.

And so Gwyndolin Gwynson, Prince of the Lord of Sunlight, Dark Sun of Anor Londo, stood vigilant in the tomb of his father and waited for the miserable traitor's inevitable return.

Eventually, after some hours had passed, the great spiral stairs serving as a nexus for the walkways of Anor Londo ground to a halt, the silence that followed pierced by clanking armor and pattering footsteps on stone. Gwyndolin tensed, his rage returning after being dispelled and thrashing throughout his form, whispering in his ear to charge out and vanquish the filthy mongrel kneeling before the portal to the tomb.

They paused. "O Dark Sun, my benevolent master-"

"SILENCE!" His cry echoed off the walls of the chamber and drifted into the expanse of Anor Londo's atmosphere, stunning the renegade and almost shocking them onto their behind. Gwyndolin permitted them to return to their prior position before continuing. "Thou has't committed a most vile offense, O Blade of the Darkmoon. Pray thee know what t may be?"

For a moment the Dark Sun believed their silence to be of withdrawal, and considered questioning them again before they cautiously muttered. "Louder; I cannot heareth thee, and speak in the formal tongue."

The renegade Blade stopped, then started again. "Forgive me, my great lord and master, but in a state of distress after a traumatic event I sought an audience with the Princess of Sunlight. Hearing her words, despite my hopes, only upset me further-"

"So thou killed her." He paused for the shame to suitably infest the renegade. "Mine dear sister... Lain base by a detestable, traitorous cur as yourself..." Fidgeting with his gilded necklace to set down his anxiety, Gwyndolin raised his staff, brushed it tenderly, and then aimed the catalyst tip-first at the Undead who dared to slither back to what was once a safe place for them. "Thou that tarnisheth the Godmother's image, I am Gwyndolin." His staff glowed, the energies of the Moon pooling into a bolt of light. "And thy transgression shall not go unpunished. Thou shalt perish, in the twilight of Anor-"

The renegade stepped into the tomb.

Unconsciously, Gwyndolin stumbled back and broke the charging of his spell, caught off guard by such a flagrant display of sacrilege. "Heretic... First thou offendeth the Godmother..." The Dark Sun's stance returned, and a new surge of furious vigor steadied his focus. "...and now thou see fit to trample upon the tomb of the Great Lord!?" He waved his free hand, and satisfaction buried within the throes of his anger watched as the heretic collapsed onto all fours, coughing and gasping - his connection to his power was severed. "I am the Dark Sun, Gwyndolin!" His spells returned in a blaze of light. "Let the atonement for thy felonies commenceth!"

Despite the seemingly incapacitated state Gwyndolin had left the heretic in, they quickly returned to their feet and dashed away from the projectile, unsheathing their sword and shield before charging the Dark Sun himself. He prepared himself for the impact, goading the Undead into charging faster, and then teleported further into the illusion in order to further disorient his attacker. While they clambered to their feet in confusion, he prepared an array of glowing orbs which collapsed and spat fat beams of mystic moonlight out towards the entrance of the tomb, exploding and obliterating the immediate area they came into contact with. Still, the heretic charged out, and this time threw their sword true into Gwyndolin's chest.

He gasped in pain, teleporting further away and tearing out the weapon before tossing it aside and calling upon the moon once more. Weaving moonlight into a translucent barrier, Gwyndolin then directed it to his injury and consumed it to hasten the healing process, all whilst the heretic battered at the obstacle separating god from man - the son of Gwyn noted that they wielded a new weapon, and had the realization that they may have been carrying it all along.

The battle had to end, and soon.

The barrier cracked, and Gwyndolin prepared a soulmass whilst retreating and firing off moonlight-imbued arrows at the Undead, who had broken through and was struggling to shield themselves from the shards of light breaking away and stabbing themselves towards the heretic. Despite the punishment they endured, they kept charging, drinking from a flask whenever they were too badly wounded to continue and slashing at the Dark Sun when they were close enough, until-

Gwyndolin's back connected with the far wall of the tomb. He spun around for a moment, realized his predicament, and failed to suppress a growl of frustration.

"So, you've cornered me. Doth not bethink thy fate is averted, fell creature! " As they edged closer, Gwyndolin projected a sphere of pure, blinding moonlight, knocking the heretic back several meters and stunning them into submission. "Thy rightful punishment shalt beest metted out, in the name of Lord Gwyn!"

There was no routes to escape through, and no room to teleport or attack with spells. His only option, the Dark Sun of Anor Londo manifested moonlight all around him, donning it as armor and forming a wicked glaive with his catalyst. He met the Undead's assault with his own, parrying the first strike and flowing into a vicious riposte of multiple stabs and slashes. Failing to breach their defense, he pressed on, deflecting their blows and hammering their shield until it flew from their hand and left them with only their dexterity and sense of timing to defend themselves with.

Alas, his elder brother was the one gifted with martial prowess, and so Gwyndolin was swiftly disarmed. In a last, desperate attempt to pass judgment on the Undead - for he now knew he would not leave this tomb alive - he called for the many loyal Blades of the Darkmoon to roam the tragic ruins of Lordran and hunt down the monstrous hollow who would dare to violate the covenant of the Darkmoon.

The Undead's sword, retrieved at some point in the battle, pierced Gwyndolin's chest and pulled him forward when his strength failed him. Collapsed to his knees, consciousness began slipping away, and in his dying moments he could have sworn the Undead prayed for forgiveness as a curse forced its way between the Dark Sun's lips for the last time.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

I didn't realise that Gwyndolin actually used something other than magic until I watched the fight itself - it didn't matter though, since I literally changed one word (or rather, added to it) to fix that error. Also, this chapter officially marks the 10,000+ word mark, hooraaayy! *party popper and horn sounds*

Anyway, I'm sorry for the longer-than-usual delay between chapters; I had a bit of writer's block figuring out how to write this battle since I'd never seen it myself, and I had trouble motivating myself to write anyway for a few days. All is good though! I've gotten back on track, and am eager to continue work on this.

Thanks again for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!


	9. Window 9 - The Last Giant Lord

When the treacherous creatures from beyond the ocean came, they were dismissed as precocious explorers of a foreign land by the entirety of one's cortege - they aimlessly listed about, establishing camps wherever they landed and cataloging whatever took their fancy, which turned out to be everything in sight.

When the humans shattered that illusion, they lacked even the honor and dignity to strike at them in the sunlight, lurking through the shadows that their souls were inexorably bound to and targeting the most precious treasure that one's people possessed.

When Lord Jeigh was finally able to muster and lead a counterattack, a great number of one's people - from the children to the elderly, healthy to sick - were spirited away by the soul-seekers, their mountain of a king and his shadow of a queen. By the time the Giants had gathered at the shores of their land, those who were kidnapped were far beyond their help.

In their collective grief, the Giants within their great capital only stayed long enough to announce the injustice and pleaded for assistance before they left their shores for a full-scale conquest of the foreign "Drangleic". Jeigh remembered that day clearly - one had decried the actions of those foreign animals and sworn to burn their entire continent to the ground if it meant recovering those who were abducted, a rallying call to organize the steel-willed beings into a righteous frenzy.

Now...

Now, one remembered the endless rage and sick satisfaction coursing through one's veins when the Giants had first made landfall in Drangleic - specifically a brilliant ocean-wreathed city that was brought to ruin by the literal weight of the Giants' onslaught. One remembered marching inland, stumbling across the mountainous terrain in a desperate search for the stolen generations of kin...

...and the violent despair when they found their remains in a long-forgotten manor.

Jeigh's awareness returned to the blazing world around one, and scanned the horizon; the Giant fleet waited beyond, requiring the collapse of this fort's defenses before they could land and deposit their vengeful cargo. Affirmed and confident with the fuel of one's rage, the Giant Lord made to stride towards one's Vanguard - the trusted pair who would aid one in finding the device that would open the fleet's path - and was stopped when one felt their souls spontaneously gutter and vanish.

Was it the statue that blocked one's path beyond, the great stone head knocked down by a stray projectile from one of the renowned Hephaestan pyromancers? And yet it had just fallen... one perused the souls of those nearby again, brushing against and sending chills down the group beyond the ruin, felt their chills when they became aware of the Giant Lord's presence. A strange soul did not; indeed, it was completely alien, with too much composure and far too much strength for such a young soul.

Within that presence, two Giant souls resonated and begged to be avenged; Jeigh could only do as one's office commanded and oblige.

The presence approached, and Jeigh's assessment was correct - despite the youth of the alien soul, its strength and equipment felt anachronistic; it was not recognizable in its foreign armor, and when it spoke, it was in a tongue that the Giant could not place.

Jeigh quietly snorted to oneself in amusement, as none of that mattered; the hero apparent would die all the same.

Roaring a challenge, Jeigh's sword fell towards the ground and split the rampart with a crack, a yawning abyss opening and threatening to send the stumbling warrior into a fatal drop. Despite the odds, it still recovered, and alternated between sprinting over stable spots and leaping between platforms in order to close in on the Giant Lord. As soon as it was in striking distance, Jeigh feigned another downward slash and shifted the attack at its zenith into a sidewards swipe of the blade, catching the hero with the flat and pelting it at the fort walls, collapsing in a heap upon impact. The Giant lowered one's guard, carefully edged around the crevice, and then set down one's sword to better shove the statue aside.

Before one could secure one's hold on the obstacle, a yell of pain emerged unbidden as one's leg was struck viciously by a discarded war-hammer; the hero was somehow still alive. Renewed fury guided Jeigh's hand in a backhand towards one's flank - which scarcely missed its mark - and spun him around, glancing towards one's feet and catching a glimpse of the alien before they started-

Climbing the wounded leg?

It reached one's waist before Jeigh fully grasped the danger posed. Now upon Jeigh's shoulder - how did the warrior climb so fast? - the Giant Lord swatted with no small amount of desperation at the soul-binder as it fished for a weapon at its hip. Securing it and raising it into the air triumphantly, the giant slayer held the longsword in a reverse grip and plunged it repeatedly into Jeigh's shoulders, eliciting groans of pain with each plummet of the bradden steel blade, until one fell to one's knees and leaned dangerously towards the ravine in the wall.

Yet Jeigh was not yet ended; the Giants still needed one, and to ensure that their stolen kin were avenged, Drangleic. Must. BURN.

Vigor renewed, the Giant Lord roared in finality and clamped one's hand over the wandering warrior, wrenching it from one's back and glaring at it with all the hatred one hadn't already mustered against the king of Drangleic. Jeigh took a moment to watch the cretin fidget and struggle to escape - evoking images of spider webs and captive insects - and slowly tightened one's grip on the warrior, savoring its screams of agony and the convulsions of its dying soul.

A stray fireball, aim thrown off when the pyromancer responsible was struck down by a ballista's bolt, sailed through the air and exploded against Jeigh's left shoulder.

Howling, the Giant Lord listed forward and flailed forwards, inadvertently releasing the alien in order to secure a crumbling handhold. One needed to move fast; there was no chance that the parapet would remain stable long enough to climb up safely, so one needed to move quickly-

\- one would have needed to move quicker than that.

The stone bricks keeping Jeigh secure snapped their connection to the rest of the wall, and one plummeted to the fortifications below, howling and swinging wildly in desperation and fury and despair and-

The Last Giant, startled, emerged from their slumber.

"What had...?" As any being would when awakened before their time, Jeigh's mind was a muck, soft fur and soothing azure quietly snatching away its thoughts the same way Vendrick had snatched away its kin.

"Speaking of that cur, where is..." It began, but whatever queries it hoped to have answered died on the way to its mouth when the dilapidated nature of its former prison. A brilliant skylight loosed a few stray beams of sunlight upon the Giant's form, bathing them in warmth incongruous with their surroundings; broken battlements from the doomed assault decorated the otherwise spartan cavern, and stalagmites sealed to the earth what wasn't still chained to the floor.

Was it really that difficult for Jeigh to wrench their arms free from the cavern formations, or had it grown that weak in captivity? They weren't sure, and it didn't change the fact that Vendrick hadn't yet arrived.

Would the bestial king come today? He had never put off a morning visit before, trying to pry out what information he could - for what end, Jeigh never could determine. Perhaps this was some sort of ruse to weaken the Last Giant's will and have them open up the precious few secrets of...

...of their people. What had happened, where were they? Were they safe!? Jeigh's desperation struggled to give those fears voice, but their throat had atrophied with disuse and it could barely shout, pitiful groans crawling outwards. Even then, it didn't matter; the King would never understand their intent, never mind their language.

Nothing had mattered ever since the battle, in any case.

Jeigh allowed themself to wallow in self-pity for a few minutes (hours?) longer before attempting to return to sleep, sick of being patient with the murderer of the Giants. Alas, existence was not yet finished tormenting the broken grudge-bearer, permitting the reinforced door to open and allow whoever was on the other side entrance to what could be generously referred to as Jeigh's prison. They would not look up, not give Vendrick the perverted satisfaction of witnessing true loss in the Giant's expression while he gave a hollow apology and went through the same rituals that a mindless creature would when surviving on a day-to-day basis.

He had not yet spoken; as a matter of fact, his guards had not secured the bonds tying the Last Giant down. Who had-?

When Jeigh looked up, a number of things happened at once.

The warrior, now garbed in the tattered garb of a wanderer and wielding both a wooden staff and sword took a step back, caution evident in its expression. Next, Jeigh recognized that face for what it was; then a roar of unbridled fury - YOU DID THIS TO US, YOU DOOMED THEM YOU DOOMED THEM ALL - and then they was free of their bonds, bellowing in grief and scampering on all fours in a beeline towards the Undead.

They crashed into the cavern wall, prompting some stalactites to break away and plunge into the ground, and then spun around to scan for the warrior, frenzied gaze snapping from focus to focus to-

THERE YOU ARE, NOW DIE

They attempted to kick forward, but was rewarded by falling flat on their rear by overexerting their malnourished muscles. Too vulnerable for too long; the Undead was pelting them with soul bolts and clutching their sword stiffly at their side as if to ward off evil spirits.

A sword which had plunged into their shoulder and slaughtered his vanguard and SLAUGHTERED THE GIANTS FOR THE KING -

Whatever coherent thought remained in Jeigh's mind vanished completely as the reality of this situation revealed itself; their people was gone, extinct, and the wretched abomination in front of them with the too-young soul was solely responsible. Yelling, they swung their arms with as much force as they could muster at the minute form of their genocide, but in spite of their effort the warrior-mage was evading each and every blow. It yelped in panic and dove between their legs, so they swatted with no small amount of desperation -

\- and found nothing. They stepped forward and turned to face the cretin, but lost their balance and fell to their side, impaling them on a few stray stalagmites. Moaning in pain, they slowly pried themselves from the penetrating grip of the earth, and felt their arm come loose. GOOD, ALL THE BETTER WITH WHICH TO KILL THAT MONSTER.

Grasping their severed wrist firmly, a surge of hate propelled the Last Giant from their would-be resting place and swung the improvised weapon out towards the Undead, joined by a wave of catharsis when it rolled and came to a stop beside the slope of the cavern wall. They set down their weapon to better-

WAIT, NO

Jeigh fearfully returned their arm to their hand, but the mistake was made - their other leg gave out when the Undead slashed the worn tendons granting it movement, and so they came to a rest, staring upwards towards the sky that the Giants would never see again. They howled, this time in indignation, and noticed the pensive stance the Undead had adopted.

YOU TAKE EVERYTHING AND HAVE THE GALL TO FEEL SORRY!?

They rotated to face the Undead and reached out. At the same time, perhaps, it may have jabbed its sword haphazardly towards the Last Giant.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

I am so, so, _so sorry_ about this delay. Part of it was uni work and general life stuff, but mostly I was lazy and procrastinating when it came to writing this. I could offer a bunch of excuses as to what exactly slowed the rate at which this chapter was completed, but I'm not going to pretend it was fair to go on an unintended mini-hiatus without any notice.

Now that that's done, this chapter is officially the first to break 2,000 words! Yeah! It's actually 1,989 words, but no one needs to know that now do they?

Also, in order to write more often and to get you guys involved, I wanted to encourage you to send in messages as to who you want to see next! I can't promise that all bosses in the Souls series are able to be written about (*cough* GARGOYLES *cough*, DEMON OF SONG *cough*), but I thought it'd be nice to write chapters for the characters you guys want to see. So yeah! Just send me a message about what you want me to write about next, and I'll actually commit to it!

Thanks (and so sorry) again for stopping by!

P.S. I'm going to add those double lines directly above this message to every chapter to help differentiate separate sections of a chapter from the author's note, so don't wet your beds if you get updates relating to past chapters :P


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